


Free and Clear

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, hell-fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-28
Updated: 2007-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You don't even know what you're thanking me for."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Free and Clear

**Author's Note:**

> This story could not have been finished without torch and Laura, for holding my hand while I wrote it and its fifty slightly-different endings; Terri, astolat, Rachel, Seah, Margie, and thisisbone for hand-holding and beta-reading; and tvm for running the Guess the Writer contest at livejournal/spn_gleeweek, for which this story was written (and for letting me rewrite the ending that one last time).

  
Dean comes awake choking, his first breath a deep, dry rattle in his chest. Sam's ready for it; he comes out of his chair and has a hand behind Dean's shoulders in seconds, lifts him up, holds a bottle of water to his mouth. Dean drinks, spits; drinks again. Sam's ready with the second bottle when Dean finishes the first. When Dean's halfway through the third, he pushes Sam's hand away and falls back into a wrecked sprawl across the bed, unconscious. Sam wipes at Dean's mouth with one side of a washcloth, then wets down the other side and runs it all over his face, cleaning black ash and blood off faded, pale scars that weren't there the last time Sam saw him.

Dean's body starts to shake, a tremble deep in the bone. Nothing worse than shock, Sam figures. Hopes. He covers Dean with a couple of blankets, then goes to the hallway to turn up the heat. He puts the thermostat on 85, strips down to his t-shirt and goes back to the chair by Dean's bed. It's only a little while before the radiators start to click and ping. The shakes ease, and Dean twists his head into the pillow, draws his knees up and flings one arm out behind him. He makes noise in his sleep: smacks his lips together, twitches. Gripes incoherently at something in a dream. Sam can't take his eyes off him, can't stop drinking it all in, every normal thing. His breath stutters out of him in uneven hitches; he's got to get that under control before Dean wakes up again.

He scrubs at his face with the heel of one hand, and when it comes away wet, he thinks, _yeah, better fix that, too._

  


* * *

  


The second time Dean wakes up, he gives Sam some warning. He pulls in a breath out of time with the others, so deep it seems to go on forever. Sam gets his hands on Dean's shoulders just as Dean opens his eyes. Any other time, the extra height and weight wouldn't help, but Sam only needs a second, long enough to register, long enough to say, "Dean," and keep him from struggling. "It's okay," he says, "you're okay. It's just me."

Between one breath and the next, between consciousness and reason, there's something lost and dark in Dean's eyes that Sam can't let himself see. He shuts it out and presses Dean's shoulders against the mattress, looks at Dean's clean face, his open mouth, his filthy, blood-crusted hair.

"Sam?"

Sam nods, and the tension in Dean's body bleeds away. Sam's hands slide up to the back of Dean's neck, shaking a little; he can't help it. He looks now, because he can. Dean's frowning, but his eyes are clear, moving, _different_. Better now.

"Yeah," Sam says, "it's me. We're at Bobby's. We're safe, okay?"

Dean pushes Sam off, struggles to his feet. Sam stays close, keeping an eye on him, keeping him in arm's reach. He's having trouble looking away. Dean clenches his fists at his sides, eyes tracking around the room, logging every detail. Since that first moment, Dean hasn't looked at Sam, but when he's done with the room his focus shifts and Sam has to clench his teeth to keep from embarrassing them both. He's got a million things stored up to say, everything he thought he'd lost his last chance at, but Dean didn't come back anybody else but Dean. There are rules -- important, ridiculous rules -- and Sam can't help smiling like an idiot down at the idiot who made them.

"Hey," he says, instead of everything else. His voice comes out weird and rough, but he can't do anything about that; Dean can just deal. "Glad to have you back, man. I was starting to get a little worried."

Dean's eyebrows pull together, and his eyes get dark and narrow. "Sam?"

"You hungry?"

"What did you do?"

"There's sandwich stuff. I could make you something."

Dean's hands come up, grip Sam's shoulders tight enough to bruise. "Sam, I swear to God. If you -- Just. What did you _do_?"

_Nothing you wouldn't have done,_ Sam almost says. But then, Dean probably wouldn't find that very comforting. "Nothing," he says. "Nothing you'd have a problem with, Dean, I swear. We're free and clear."

"Free and clear," Dean repeats, and Sam nods. "Don't lie to me, Sammy," he says, his voice so thick and raw Sam can barely stand to hear it. He searches Sam's face, fingers fisting in Sam's shirt. "Please, don't lie to me. Not about this."

"Dean, I'm not." Sam pushes sincerity at him as hard as he can, wills Dean to believe. Dean's face doesn't change, he's still scared half-blind, and Sam doesn't worry about Dean's rules; he just yanks him in. He wraps his arms around him, clenches his fists against Dean's back, and holds on. "Jesus, Dean," he says, his throat closing up around the words. He presses his face into Dean's shoulder, breathes him in. "I didn't give anything up, I swear. I would have, you stupid, selfless _asshole_, I would have, but I didn't have to."

Dean's arms come up, slow, but they come up and close around Sam's ribs, tight and strong. Sam laughs, one sharp bark of a laugh that hurts, and feels crazy, and just makes Dean hold on tighter.

  


* * *

  


It's stupid, because there isn't any danger _now_, but just sending Dean off to clean up makes Sam twitchy. He hopes it's just residual adrenaline, because if it keeps up he'll have an ulcer within the week. When Dean comes out, dressed in clean clothes, smooth cheeks and clean teeth and wet hair, Sam only looks for a second before turning back to the sandwiches he's building on the counter. One check, Dean all in one piece, fine; think about something else. Sam clenches his jaw and squeezes too hard around the handle of the knife in his hand. He has to push his hands against the countertop to keep them steady. He'll get used to Dean being back, Dean being _alive_ again. If he doesn't, Dean's likely to kick his ass.

"So where's Bobby?" Dean says. He pulls a chair out from the table and spins it, sits with his arms across its back. If he remembers anything, he's not talking; if he hurts, his movements don't show it.

"Off killing something, probably. He said he'd be back in a few days, and that he didn't need any help."

"Heard that one before." Dean grins, and Sam grins too; the longer they know him, the surer they are that Bobby taught John Winchester everything he knew about hunting -- especially the stuff that's clearly crap. "Did he help you do whatever it is you did?"

"Dean, I didn't do anything."

"Right. Demon bitch just coughed me up like a hairball, because you asked her so nice." Dean holds his arms out in front of him, his fingers spread wide. "Looks like I had a pretty bad time down under. I don't recognize more than about half these scars." His stare shifts up to Sam. "How long?"

Sam slides the plate of sandwiches into the middle of the table, lines up two bottles of Bobby's beer next to it, and sits down across from Dean. "Two weeks, three days," he says. _Nine hours, twenty-two minutes. And then a few more hours on that bed, not breathing._ Sam presses his fists into his thighs under the table, and smiles at his brother. "It was kind of restful," he adds, and feels his nails cutting into his palms.

Dean just looks at him, and it's all there; he sees straight through Sam, and there's nothing Sam can do about it. After a few seconds, Dean snorts, and drops his eyes. "I'll bet," he mutters under his breath.

"You should eat."

"I plan to." Dean pulls the sandwiches in close, his arms guarding a half-circle around the plate. He looks up at Sam and smirks. "What are you having?"

Sam laughs. "Aggravation, apparently."

"Good for you, boy," Dean says with a familiar grin. "Keeps your blood pumping, puts hair on your chest."

Sam's not discussing his chest hair with Dean, no matter how glad he is to have him back. "I should call Ellen," he says instead. "And Jo. They've been bugging me to tell them what happened to you."

"I'd kind of like to hear that story myself." Dean's face is relaxed, almost bland. "Why don't you tell me first?"

Sam takes a breath. Gets himself steady. Every second out of the pit is making Dean stronger, sharper, more _Dean_. In spite of the careful mask, Sam can see from Dean's eyes that he's out of stalling time. He rolls his shoulders and lays his arm out on the table, leans back into his chair. As gently as he can, he says, "No."

"Sam..."

"I can't."

"You _did_ make a deal," Dean snarls. "God_damn_ it, Sam. You swore to me you wouldn't. You swore."

"I didn't make a deal." Sam flattens his palm against the tabletop. "Not really. I didn't give her anything. I...accepted a condition. I can't tell you what it was. That's part of it. If I tell you, all bets are off."

"Then all bets are off!" Dean uncurls his fingers from the bottle he's been gripping like a lifeline, and slams his fist into the table. He gets up, turns his back on Sam and walks across the room, bracing his hands on the counter. His head drops, and the line of his back is so tired Sam's chest aches just to see it.

"I didn't hurt anyone," Sam says. "I didn't give anything of myself. I didn't do anything you wouldn't have let me do."

"How the fuck do you know what I would have let you do?"

"I guessed," Sam snaps. "You weren't exactly available for a consult, Dean. Just trust me, okay? Look, I ran it by Bobby before I did anything -- which is more than _you_ did, by the way -- and he agreed with me. It's nothing we can't live with."

Dean turns. He looks past Sam, straight past him, like he's not even there. Sam can practically hear the gears grinding in Dean's head, but he doesn't say anything; he just walks back to the table, falls into his chair, and reaches for a sandwich. Sam follows him, and for a few minutes there's nothing, just Dean shoving sandwiches in three bites at a time, washing them down, and glaring at the plate like it's the source of all his troubles. Like it's Sam, in other words. Sam doesn't feel guilty in the slightest; he's happy to replace the hellspawn previously filling that role. Ecstatic, even.

When Dean starts to slow down, Sam gets him another beer. Dean grunts something Sam takes as a thank you, and keeps eating. In the middle of the last sandwich, Dean stops and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. _Disgusting_, Sam tells himself sternly, but it's Dean, and it's all he can do not to laugh.

Dean looks up. The anger's gone out of his eyes, replaced with something not much safer. "Bobby agreed with you?"

Sam nods once. "Yeah."

Dean shoves the last half of his sandwich into his mouth. He's nowhere near done chewing when he stops to say, "When did you say he was due back?"

Sam lets out the breath he's been holding, leans back in his chair, and grins.

  


* * *

  


It's only been two weeks (three days, fifteen hours, twelve minutes), and it doesn't seem like Dean remembers any of it, but Sam knows Dean. He knows how to get him all the way back. When Dean's done eating and the dishes are put away, Sam takes Dean outside and shows him the car. She's got the brightest shine on her Sam could manage in the dusty grass and weeds of Bobby's yard, and when he pulls the tarp off her, the sun hits her curves and Dean's eyes light up. There's a look on his face Sam thought he'd never see again, and it stays there when Dean looks up from the car, over at Sam.

"You took good care of her," he says, running a hand over the hood.

"I knew you'd kick my ass if I didn't."

"That option is still on the table," Dean says, pretending to rub a non-existent smudge off the driver's side window. "Pending further investigation of my baby's well-being."

Sam rolls his eyes and slaps the shiny black roof. "Wanna go for a drive?"

Dean's grin is blinding. "You're the best little brother in the world."

  


* * *

  


Sam leaves The Key of Solomon open on his bed and goes to take a shower. It's not much, but it's something he can do. He strips down, adjusts the heat, stands under the water with left-over fear clawing in his chest like a living thing. He can't get rid of it, can't reason with it, can't drown it in Dean's presence no matter how hard he tries. The tile is smooth against his forehead, under his hands; he holds himself up and breathes until his chest stops heaving, until the water over his back runs cold.

When he comes out, dripping, wrapped in one towel and rubbing at his head with another, Dean's stretched out on his bed and the book is closed and resting on the night stand. Dean's eyes are shut, but he's not sleeping; his face is too composed for that. Sam dries off, pulls on sweats and a t-shirt, and sits down on the edge of the bed. It creaks under him, sags, and Dean opens his eyes.

"I never said thank you."

Sam laughs; it sounds weird and shaky, even to him. "Yeah. Well. You're welcome. Any time, dude."

"I mean it, Sam."

"You don't even know what you're thanking me for."

"Probably for something amazingly stupid. But you're here, and I'm here, and we're both staying here --" He looks up at Sam sharply for confirmation, and Sam nods. "--so I guess that's better than the alternative."

Sam's fingers tighten into fists. He crosses his arms to hide them, but then he's shaking anyway, and it's not like Dean's blind or anything, he can _see_ it. He does see it, shifts up so the bed creaks again and grabs Sam by the arm. "Hey," he says, giving Sam a shake.

Sam opens his eyes. "Sorry," he says, because Dean's face is tight with worry, and Sam's sick of that, he's seen enough of it to last a lifetime. "It's just."

The _alternative._

Dean says, "Hey," again, like it means something Sam should understand. He gets an arm around Sam, pulls him in tight. He pulls Sam's head down to his shoulder, and it's a bad angle and it's awkward and Sam's neck isn't supposed to bend that way, but with his face pressed into the darkness of Dean's throat, he doesn't care. "I'm here, Sammy," Dean says into his hair. He turns Sam to face him, and his other arm comes up, and it's the most God-awful uncomfortable hug Sam's ever been part of and it's the best one of his life so far.

"Get off me," Sam says when he's got himself back together. He doesn't say it right, though, or not strong enough. Dean laughs, and gets off him, but then he lays back and tugs Sam down with him so they're lying on their backs, side by side, on a bed most definitely built for one. Sam's got one leg on the floor and one elbow braced on the night stand, and Dean's wedged between his other side and the wall. He can't keep his eyes open, can't keep his mind focused on any one thing. He's awake and then he's awake again and he's not sure what happened in between, except Dean's on his side and Sam's all the way on the bed now. Dean's propped up on one elbow, looking down at him, his hand pressed flat over Sam's heart.

Sam looks up, exhausted, hollowed out; full of something fierce and familiar that he can't even put a name to. It's only when Dean starts to smile that Sam figures it out, and he's sinking again before he can tell Dean what it is.

It's just as well, he tells himself on his way down. Dean can be kind of a bitch about stuff like that.

  


* * *

  


Sam wakes up slow, morning light in his eyes. He's alone, but there's music playing just outside the window. It's AC/DC and it's coming from the car stereo, loud enough to wake the neighbors if Bobby had any. Sam grins and stretches up with his arms and out with his feet till there's more of him off the rickety twin bed than on. It feels good; he's still heavy with sleep, he's still spent the last two weeks feeling like a jigsaw puzzle badly put together, but now all his edges line up right. Something else Dean's never going to let him say. Sam's grin just gets wider.

He wanders into the kitchen scratching his head and thinking about coffee. Maybe some eggs. Dean clearly had that thought first, though; everything Sam needs for breakfast is dirty, and sitting in the sink. A little bit of his happy glow of serenity fades, and he bellows out the open window, "Dean!"

When he comes in, Dean's wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a smile that wraps all the way around his face. All of it's streaked with motor oil. There's grease under his fingernails and dirt in his hair and he just left all his dishes in the fucking _sink_ and Sam doesn't even care. He's a little disgusted with himself but he doesn't even _care_. He's moving before he knows he's going to move and he stops in front of Dean, staring down at him, at yesterday's five o'clock shadow and today's sweat, all of it solid and real. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he did leave something behind at the crossroads, whatever it was that used to stand between him and Dean and let him keep a decent distance. If he did, he's glad. He never wanted it anyway; he hopes it stays gone.

It takes him a while to get himself together and stop drinking Dean in like the world's last glass of water. When he gets his focus back, Dean's eyes are on his, and there's a warmth there that makes Sam shiver. "Sorry," Sam says, though he's not sure if it's about the yelling or the staring; he doesn't really feel apologetic, either way.

Dean's mouth quirks up. "I wasn't sure if you were about to pinch yourself, or pinch me. I'm pretty sure I'm real, but if you need to test it..."

Sam takes another step closer. He tells himself it's okay; he's been invited. Dean smells like oil and dust and hard work. He smells good. It's not that Sam doesn't know what he wants is wrong; it's that every single part of it feels right. Necessary. Inevitable, anyway; right enough for Sam.

Dean's eyes go wide. He's close enough Sam can hear his breathing, the quick stutter of it before it falls back into rhythm. Sam's never seen Dean like this, shocked wide open, completely undefended. Sam's never _looked_ at Dean like this. He closes in and his hands twitch, wanting to touch. "Can I?"

"I wish you would," Dean says, his voice low and rough, and he takes Sam's hands and pulls them up to his face.

Dean is real. Sam knew it, but now he _knows_ it. Dean's skin is warm from the sun, flushed, and he waits for Sam to touch him like he could wait forever; like maybe he already has. If he's wanted this and thought he couldn't have it, that's wrong and that's _over_; Sam ends it with his mouth, his hands, everything.

Dean comes to life in Sam's hands, bites softly at Sam's lips and licks inside until the taste of him is everywhere and Sam is shaking. He drops his hands from Dean's face and slides them up the back of Dean's shirt, pulling him in tight. He doesn't know if he gave Dean the shakes or if Dean got them on his own, but neither of them is steady, neither of them is handling this well. Sam laughs against Dean's mouth, freaked out and lit up and wanting; Dean laughs, too, and runs gentle, callused fingers over Sam's lips, his chin, his throat. They don't stop, thank God, Dean doesn't stop, because Sam's not done yet.

He pushes, and Dean goes. Back against the counter, shoving Dean up and Dean _gets_ it, hooks his legs around Sam's hips. It just about evens them out, and it gets Dean up against Sam like he's supposed to be. There's nothing wrong about the way Dean's head falls back, about the hiss of air between his teeth. Nothing wrong with the soft stretch of throat he's offering. Sam takes it; easy at first, harder when Dean pushes into it. He sucks, bites down, and Dean _likes_ that, makes a sound that goes right through Sam like a shock. Dean is hard beneath his jeans, against Sam, and his hands slide down Sam's back to pull him closer, guide him in a rough, long stroke that makes them both groan.

"Sam," Dean says, voice breaking over it; it's the best way Dean's ever said it, hard and hopeful and committed. Sam nods into the curve of Dean's throat, and his hands clench around Dean's hips. He licks across Dean's collarbone, making him shiver, so good, _Jesus_, and finds his mouth again. There's nothing of Dean he doesn't want, nothing he doesn't need, no way to get it all the way he needs it, right now. He loses it, just a little, trying to hold Dean to him and get his shirt off at the same time. Dean helps; it's not fast enough, but he cuts off the whine Sam can't help making with a bite at the base of Sam's throat. Dean gets their shirts off, his first, then Sam's; he gets his pants down past his hips and pulls Sam's hand where he wants it. Not fast enough, but good enough, when Dean's head snaps back and hits the cabinet just as Sam's hand closes around him.

Dean is real. There's no part of him Sam doesn't know. It's there in his eyes as Sam strokes him, getting stronger; there's nothing of Dean that Sam can't have. _This_ is right; Dean watching him, Dean's breath shuddering out in a broken stream over Sam's mouth. Dean falling apart in _his_ hands, no one else's. Sam's earned this, bought and paid for it, like Dean bought and paid for Sam. He shifts, makes some space, licks at Dean's jaw line, a long slide down his throat. He pushes Dean back more, runs his tongue over the tight, rough jut of a nipple, sucks it in. Dean jerks up against him and Sam gives up on his hands, shoves his sweats down and pushes back, sliding their hips together again, and again, no grace or timing, no control. He feels Dean come, fingers pressing bruises into his ass, legs shaking around him; his voice cracks into a sharp cry with every push, so sweet, and Sam lets go, relief and need and love twisting through him till he breaks with it, Dean's name in his mouth, all of it spilling out together.

There's quiet, after. Sam gets his breath back under his control, lets his heart slow down a little before he pulls back. He's wrecked Dean; bite marks and suck marks, a thumb-shaped bruise on his arm. Dark, swollen lips. Dean looks happy about it, though, dazed and flushed, so Sam smiles a little and runs his thumb over the pulse point in Dean's throat. Sam probably doesn't look a lot better himself. That thought makes him smile even wider.

"Smug bastard," Dean says, grinning. He doesn't sound all that modest himself. He blinks lazily, still slumped against the cabinets, still wide open in all the ways Sam wants.

Sam turns away. He just wants to find a dishrag or some paper towels to clean them off, to cool down the moment before he breaks into song or cries or gets down on one knee. He's just trying to get himself together, but Dean reaches up and pulls him back with a firm hand braced around his chin. "Hey," he says, smile fading. His voice is deep and quiet. "Second thoughts?"

"No!"

Dean tilts his head a little, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "First thoughts?"

Sam huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. "Just barely."

"This is weird," Dean says. He brushes his thumb over Sam's cheekbone, eyes tracking the movement. "Probably stupid. Definitely illegal. Doesn't feel wrong to me, though," he admits. He drops his hand, and shifts his gaze back to meet Sam's. "It feels good, but I don't want anything you don't want, Sam."

"Anything I don't want," Sam says. He laughs a little; it's hard because it's hard to breathe. "Jesus, Dean."

"I mean it. I'm happy enough to be back from the dead. Don't get me wrong, the perks are great -- really, seriously great, Sam -- but you don't owe me anything." Dean's eyes are clear and warm and _okay_ with it. With just giving it all back, if that's what Sam wants.

That's the worst part; that's the part Sam can't take. He pulls Dean in by the shoulders, pulls him tight against his chest. "I brought you back from the dead," Sam tells him. He wraps a hand around the back of Dean's neck and kisses him, quick and deep. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Dean's, holding them together. "You owe me," Sam says, smiling into the breath of space between them. "And I'm pretty sure I want it all."

  


* * *

  


They clean up -- first the kitchen, then each other in Bobby's shower. It's a tight, awkward fit, but Sam finds out he kind of likes it that way. After that they clean up again, and then they have to clean up Bobby's shower. They don't talk much; for a change, Sam doesn't think they need to. It's hard to need words when Dean ducks his head and grins every time Sam looks at him, when looking at Dean now builds something up inside of Sam that he didn't think he'd ever get to have. He's probably going a little bit crazy; if he's ever felt this _normal_ before, he can't remember it.

Bobby rolls in mid-morning the next day, a bag full of dusty books in one arm and a bag full of groceries in the other. Dean's cleaning guns at the kitchen table when he comes in, whistling loud and off-key; Sam's reading a book about global warming in the chair across from him. They both look up when they hear the truck, and Dean stands up when the front door opens. Sam takes both bags from Bobby when he comes in, and sets them on the counter. Bobby never takes his eyes off Dean.

"Well," he says eventually, his voice gruff. "I guess we still ain't met the evil thing that can put you down, boy."

Dean breaks into a wide grin. "No, sir."

Bobby splits a glare between the two of them. "Let's see that it stays that way."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, and Sam's eyebrows go up so high it hurts when Dean steps up and closes his arms around Bobby in a short, hard hug. Bobby gives it back, and they step apart looking in opposite, equally awkward directions. Sam bites his lip to keep back the smirk that would end him if either of them saw it.

He puts away the groceries while Dean takes Bobby out to show him the car, Sam's wax job on the outside and engine clean enough to shine when Dean raises the hood. He doesn't talk about the car, though; Sam knew he wouldn't. The window's still open, sun and breeze pouring through, every word as clear as if they were right in the room.

"He won't tell me what he did," Dean says. "He says he can't. Says he talked to you first, and you agreed the price wasn't too high."

"That's all true." Bobby's voice is as solid and honest as Sam could have wanted it.

"That's real good. But I know you. You didn't make any deals with that bitch, so you can tell me what he told you."

Sam leans back against the wall by the window and grins. That's his brother, right there; iron trust, but nothing wrong with checking out the back-story.

"You're right about that," Bobby says. "I'm no idiot, and I'm no Winchester, either, though God only knows what the difference is, most days. I didn't make no deal, but I did make your brother a promise, just like the one I made you last year when I found out for certain what a damn fool you are. I'm gonna keep it, just like I kept my word to you."

"Yeah, but _I_ told him. Less than a day after I made you promise, I told him."

Bobby laughs. "Nobody ever accused you of having a poker face, son. I didn't need to be psychic to see the future of that particular plan."

"All right," Dean says. "I get it. I don't want you going back on your word to Sam anyway. Just... tell me something, Bobby, please. Anything you can. Sam's my little brother; I gotta know he's all right."

Dean's voice reaches right inside Sam. He knew it would be hard; he didn't know it would be like this. He wants to tell Dean everything, crack it all open and let Dean be _sure_, but it's Dean's life he's got trapped behind his teeth with that truth; both their lives, and whatever else comes after.

Bobby takes it on for him. "I can tell you this," he says. "With you down there, he wasn't worth anything, to himself or anybody else. He was going after you, one way or another, and I wasn't always sure he was planning to come back if he couldn't save you. What he came up with was no easy thing. Hell, getting her up here was no easy thing; every day you were gone, we tried, and I didn't think she'd ever show."

"Demons aren't really all that bright," Dean says. "Thank God."

"Barely any smarter than you lot," Bobby agrees, and Dean laughs softly.

"What else?"

"It was a straight-up trap and trade. She wanted to get loose, with a side of seeing Sam suffer; he wanted you. She thinks she got the better end of the deal; me and Sam, we don't."

"That's not _enough_, Bobby!"

"Well, it's gonna have to be!"

"Jesus." There's a sudden slam against the side of the house, just behind Sam's back; he jerks away from the wall, and hears Dean say, "Goddamn it."

"That's what I like," Bobby says. "A little blood on my house, to draw the vampires. Let me look at your hand."

"It's fine."

"I'll be the judge of--"

"I said it's _fine!_ I don't get to take care of my brother, I get it; I can take care of my own fucking hand."

"You want to watch your tone, Dean. I'll take that from you when you got a brother laid out dead in the next room; I'll be damned if I'll take it when he's happy as a clam, eavesdropping on the other side of the wall."

Sam flinches a little. Bobby is really fucking good.

"Now, listen to me," Bobby says. "Both of you." Sam sighs, and moves to the window, resting his arms on the ledge. Dean's leaning against the grill of the Impala, the bottom half of his t-shirt wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. Bobby's right beside him, one hand on his shoulder. It looks like that hand is all that's holding Dean in place, so Sam's glad of it; Dean hasn't been back long enough, and Sam doesn't know what he might do if Dean tried to leave.

"What Sam gave up, he’s not going to miss," Bobby tells Dean. He gives Sam a long, searching look through the open window, and Sam nods. "And neither will you."

"This sucks," Dean says. He lets Bobby off the hook, and glares at Sam. "It'd be a lot easier to trust you if you'd tell me what the fuck is going on."

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Don't pester him about it, Dean; he can't tell you, so you'll just piss him off, and God help you both, you're stuck with each other as long as you can keep each other alive." He drops his hand from Dean's shoulder. "I just hope you'll go fight about it somewhere other than here, so I can finally get some peace and quiet. My dogs don't like all this whining. Gives 'em gas."

Dean's head snaps up and he stares at Bobby, wide-eyed, for just a second before he starts to laugh.

"All right?" Bobby says quietly, when he's done.

"Yeah, Bobby." Dean shakes his head, half a grin still tilting up his mouth. He looks up at Sam. "Yeah, it's all right."

Bobby grins at Dean, claps him on the shoulder one last time, and gives him a shove toward the house. "You boys go get packed. I want you out of my house by sundown. Ellen sent me back with something easy for you, keep you busy while you conva_lesce._"

"Convalesce, my ass," Dean mutters, but he heads for the house; when he rounds the corner out of sight, he's still smiling.

When he's gone, Sam looks at Bobby. He's not as happy as Sam wishes he could be; but then, he's not Sam. He doesn't know how much of her price Sam had paid willingly, long before the crossroads. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby snorts. "You're lucky she didn't want Dean more than she wanted loose."

"She didn't want him more than I do," Sam says, shrugging. "That's all that matters."

"She coulda kept him from you till the sun burned out, trapped or not. I don't like to think what you might have agreed to, if she'd held out for something hard."

"She wasn't anywhere near my limit, Bobby. Not even close."

"That ain't news." Bobby shakes his head, and frowns up at the sky. "That's what scares me."

  


* * *

  


They're on the road well before sundown, a bag of sandwiches on the front seat between them, Dean driving with one arm hooked over the door, one hand on the wheel. Sam can feel the hum of the car so strong it's like it's coming from inside him. He's never been good at shotgun; this car started off his cradle, and it's been a home and a bed as far back as he can remember. He goes out like a light when he should be keeping track of road signs, following maps; half the time Dean lets him, which doesn't help. He's dozing before they get out of South Dakota, dreams winding around the road until he can't tell the two apart. Dean's there in both, though, so Sam's good. That's how he wants it.

The motel Dean finds is nicer than they're used to; boring, but nice. Everything is beige, but at least it's a very clean beige. Sam stows his bag in the closet while Dean orders dinner from a pizza-shaped magnet stuck to the mini-fridge. He takes a shower, trading off with Dean, and pays for the pizza when it comes. He waits for Dean, but when Dean comes out of the shower he's not interested in dinner. He goes straight to Sam, pushes him onto the bed, slides one knee between Sam's and leans down for a kiss.

It's wet and slow and blindingly hot, and by the time Dean pulls back, Sam doesn't care about dinner either. He reaches up for Dean, but Dean gets his hands around Sam’s wrists, presses him down and holds him there. He's thinking; Sam can almost hear it.

"I won't ask again," Dean says finally. He smiles, but his eyes are steady and serious. It's not the hardest promise Dean's ever made him, but it's close. Sam gets that, now.

"We're okay," Sam says. "Try to trust me on this, Dean."

"I am. I do. I just can't quite feel like it's over, is all. I feel like there's another deadline out there, only this time I can't see it coming. I won't be ready for it."

"No deadlines." Sam pushes against Dean’s grip, gets hold of his hands; their fingers slide against each other, and Sam holds tight. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. We're going to die together of heart attacks someday, in the middle of killing the crap out of something evil that you probably pissed off in the first place. I don't know what happens after that, but it'll probably be fine. At this point, I'm pretty sure Hell's too scared of us to let us in."

"Aw, now, see. That's sweet. I want that on my tombstone."

"Put it in your will and let Bobby sort it out," Sam says. "He'll probably outlive us both."

"I do trust you, Sam." Dean's hand tightens around his. "I trust you to have my back, no matter what it costs you. I just worry you won't know when the price is too high."

"Yeah, well, that coin has two sides." Sam shoves Dean off him; he could have any time he wanted, but he kind of likes being held down, he thinks. They'll have to try that some more, so he can be really sure. He stretches himself out along Dean's side, one hand under Dean's head, one sliding up under his t-shirt; Dean's breath catches, and he grins. Sam likes that, too.

"I won't do anything crazy or stupid if you won't," Dean swears on another indrawn breath. "Crazier or stupider than this, I mean."

Sam kind of loves him for the effort, but it’s not like they’ve never met. He takes it as a promise anyway, and kisses Dean to seal it. It's weirdly sweet for a blatant, bald-faced lie; and besides, Dean's mouth is worth it.

"I'll stick around and hold you to that," Sam says when he can breathe again, and Dean’s face lights up, goes soft. Sam’s never going to get away with telling Dean what that look feels like, but sometime soon, he thinks he might give it a try.

"How long?" Dean asks, his expression perfectly grave. The grin only shows in his eyes. "I mean, I've been told I'm pretty unreliable. No telling what I might do, without proper supervision."

"Till they salt and burn us," Sam tells him, and Dean's grin spreads to his mouth. It's the truth, and it's what Sam wants. It’s a promise -- and an answer, even if Dean doesn’t know it.

It’s as close as Sam can get. And it’s the least of all the things he would have done.


End file.
